


Sharing Different Heartbeats

by talithan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talithan/pseuds/talithan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Harry’s first time in New York City, and he is determined to have a good time. How Draco Malfoy figures into this remains to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing Different Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

> Written for twilight_tones for the 2013 Harry/Draco Tropes Fest. I was assigned the trope of Forced Bed Sharing. I'm not 100% happy with it but currently too busy to revise—maybe in the future! The title is from "Heartbeats", a song originally by The Knife; I listened to the Jose Gonzalez and and Royal Teeth covers a lot while writing.

There aren’t enough beds.

Harry wanders through the suite pointlessly, hoping he might stumble upon a surprise second bedroom, but—no, there’s just the one queen bed meant for two, and a fold-out sofa bed that sleeps another two.

“You said you called,” Harry protests. “You said you asked them to change it.”

Luna sits serenely at the table, which seats six. The room doesn’t sleep six. It sleeps four. In pairs. “I did ask them to change it,” Luna says.

“You said there would be two beds and a sofa.”

“That’s what I asked for,” Luna confirms.

“Luna, there’s only one bed and a sofa.”

“We can all see that, Potter,” Malfoy says snippily. Harry doesn’t understand why they’re acting like he’s making a big deal out of nothing. It’s not nothing. It _is_ a big deal.

“Can’t you be grown-ups about it?” Ginny says, somehow managing to look down her nose at Harry and Malfoy both, despite their height advantage.

“Well, it’s not as though it inconveniences _you_ ,” Harry counters. “What if you had to share a bed with Malfoy?”

Malfoy crosses his arms, the line of his shoulders eerily straight. “I’m starting to think I might prefer that.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” Ginny says. “The girls together and the boys together. It just makes sense.”

“You’re only saying that because you want the bed and not the couch,” Malfoy says.

Ginny crosses her arms, looking testily up at Malfoy. “Oh, and you don’t?”

“Of course I want the bed,” Malfoy says. “But Luna gets the bed, which means I’m on the sofa, since I have to share with one of you two.”

“I do get the bed,” Luna says serenely.

“And I will be joining her,” says Ginny.

“But why isn’t there another bed?” Harry interjects desperately.

“He’s a very good bed partner, Harry,” Luna says. “He doesn’t snore, or move around in his sleep, or hog the covers.”

“Ginny does all of those things,” Harry points out.

Ginny turns her glare from Malfoy to him. “So do you. Besides,” she adds, tossing her hair, “I’m much smaller. Less intrusive.”

“Yes, but Malfoy and I are both taller than both of you, so why should we have to—”

“I’m going to go ask at the desk,” Malfoy interrupts. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone. Or do. It would solve the problem.”

Harry collapses onto the sofa, then immediately springs back up onto his feet; he does not want to appear to be staking his claim in it.

“It would be easier if you hadn’t broken up, you know,” Luna points out, looking back and forth between Harry and Ginny. “Then we could just sleep the way we planned.”

‘The way we planned’ meaning Ginny and Harry on the sofa, Luna and Malfoy in the bedroom. Before Ginny broke up with Harry, and before Luna called ahead to the hotel to ask for a room with another bed, so that Harry and Ginny wouldn’t have to go through the discomfort of sharing.

“Yes, we know,” Ginny says. “But I thought we’d worked it out so this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” Harry says, sitting back down on the sofa. “We’ll just—we’ll figure something out.”

“He won’t do anything to your in your sleep, Harry,” Ginny says. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. He’ll be just as uncomfortable as you are.”

“Exactly!” Harry says. “We’ll both be uncomfortable. So why should we have to share a bed?”

“Because we’re on an all-expenses paid holiday on Luna’s invitation and we should express our gratitude by doing whatever she asks?” Ginny offers.

Harry hangs his head in his hands. She may have a point.

:

It’s an inauspicious start to what is a first visit to New York City—a first visit to _America_ —for all four of them, but there isn’t anything they can do about it. As Malfoy informs them when he returns from the front desk, because the booking was part of a package, it could not actually be altered; whomever Luna spoke with on the phone should have been able to tell her that.

Harry begins considering whether the cushions on the sofa would be enough to put together a makeshift bed on the floor. Then he begins considering that Ginny may have a point, and he may be reacting a little more dramatically than the situation warrants.

“Can we just do the things we were going to do today?” Ginny asks. “It’s not like we’re going to sleep right _now_. Can’t we figure it out while actually having some fun?”

“Yes, let’s see the sights!” Luna agrees, and the matter is decided.

The hotel is towards the bottom of the region the cab driver referred to as ‘midtown’. In Manhattan, _downtown_ doesn’t mean what it means elsewhere. Everything is town, and instead, ‘down’ means south and ‘up’ means north. ‘Mid’, of course, means middle, so Harry gathers that they’re somewhere near the middle of the island. (He hadn’t known it was an island until that very education cab ride, either.) For the most part, though, he doesn’t have much of any idea where they are.

Malfoy, on the other hand, spent a long time studying maps of the city in preparation for the trip, or so Luna says as she designates him the official navigator.

“But where are we going?” Harry asks Luna as they step out of the hotel lobby and into the windy street.

She doesn’t answer. “Just follow Draco!” she loudly instructs instead, over the varied street noise assaulting them from all around.

Harry raises his eyebrows at Ginny, who shrugs and starts after Luna. Harry sees Malfoy’s bright blond head already at the corner of the block, and he follows grudgingly after them.

Malfoy isn’t wearing a hat (for some vain reason, Harry is sure), but has a thick scarf looped around his neck and slim, nondescript earmuffs blocking the wind. In his leather-gloved hands, he holds a small notebook on it detailing their itinerary in small, slanted script. As they stand at the corner waiting for the light to change, he and Luna read his notes. Ginny smiles at Harry, her cheeks already pink with the cold. Harry tries to return it, but this stuttering start to the trip is making him feel increasingly uncomfortable already.

“Hey,” Ginny says, “give us a smile.”

At her exaggeratedly needling look, Harry manages a real one.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “We’re on holiday, Harry. It’s time to have fun.”

“It’s nothing,” Harry tries. “I forgot my gloves in the room, that’s all.”

Ginny follows his gaze, which has drifted over to Malfoy’s gloved hands as he gestures while describing their route to Luna. “Harry.” He looks back to Ginny. “Harry, I thought we were all going to have a good time.”

“We are,” he says, empty of any conviction. “It’s fine, Gin. I’m fine.”

“He’s not that bad. He’s not bad at all, really, anymore.” The light changes, and they follow the pair of blonds across the street, keeping a few paces behind. “I mean, it’s been a year and a half, and he’s been trying really hard. Isn’t it time to go easy on him, at this point?”

“I don’t have a problem with Malfoy,” Harry says, and now he sounds closer to certain. “He’s all right.”

“Then can you be less difficult about the bed thing? It’s not as though you have to make any sort of contact with him, if that’s what’s bothering you. It’s meant to fit two people comfortably.”

“It’s fine. I’ll—I can handle it. I’m not going to make a big deal about it anymore.”

“Then what’s bothering you?” She stops walking for a moment, surprising Harry and forcing him into collision with a stranger who doesn’t even pause, rather barreling onwards without remark. “Sorry,” she says quickly, linking her arm through Harry’s and starting up again slightly more quickly than their earlier pace. “It’s not _me_ , is it? Is it bothering you that we’re going to be spending all this time together? Because I thought—”

“It’s not you,” he says honestly. “We’re fine. I mean it.”

“Because we talked about this.” Ginny looks at him very intently, and he briefly worries that one or both of them will walk into someone again. “We’re friends, Harry. We aren’t going to stop being friends.”

“We aren’t. I promise.”

He means it. They’ve had to repeat this conversation every few weeks for the past several months, but he means it every time, and he knows Ginny does too. It’s a difficult transition, but they’re getting through it, and they’re already better at communicating than they ever were before.

“Good,” she says. “I promise, too.”

They are quiet for the remainder of the walk, following Malfoy and Luna’s lead down three long blocks along the same street. And it isn’t tense between them, and that’s something. Harry is tense and Ginny is feeding off Harry’s tension, but it isn’t _between them_. That alone means things are better than they could be.

But not as good as they’re supposed to be, and therein lies the problem. Harry was excited about this trip. He was looking forward to it, and now the reality of it is disappointing him even though (aside from the accommodation situation) he’s had months to anticipate all of these things. He knew Malfoy would be here. He knew Ginny would be here. He knew it would be cold and crowded and overstimulating. None of this is worth sulking over, especially not to the detriment of his friends’ experiences. He feels ashamed, almost.

Luna and Malfoy, up ahead, seem not to have noticed his mood, but Ginny is frowning beside him.

He takes a deep breath and lightly nudges her arm with his elbow. “Hey, Gin. Give us a smile,” he says when she looks up at him. “We’re on holiday.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Let’s catch up with them, you dingus.”

They have to sprint to make it to where Luna and Malfoy have paused half a block ahead of them. Luna is grinning at Malfoy with bright eyes, and he is smiling back, pink-cheeked and almost sheepish. Harry should be used to their closeness by now, but it catches him off-guard every single time.

“Ready to go up?” Luna asks Ginny and Harry as they approach.

“Up?” Ginny echoes.

“The Empire State Building,” Malfoy says. “Our first stop. From the observation deck we’ll be able to see the whole city.”

He points up, and Harry realises they’re already at the building’s entrance. With the buildings here as tall as they are and their bases hardly distinguishable at ground level, Harry hadn’t noticed that the one they’ve reached is particularly tall.

“It was the tallest building in the world when it was built,” Malfoy adds, “and remained so until about thirty years ago.”

He’s full of little facts like this as the four of them head for the lift, and all through their wait in the long line for the observation deck. Harry doesn’t know about the history of New York City, and even now that he’s here, it’s nothing he’s particularly interested in knowing. Malfoy seems very interested, though, and eager to share what he knows. Luna and Ginny listen and nod and even ask questions, but Harry finds himself tuning all of it out.

The thing is, Malfoy changed. Malfoy grew up, and Harry should be used to it by now, but he isn’t. He may never be.

He didn’t consciously think about it until afterwards—never put it into words, not even in his head—but if you’d told him before that Malfoy was going to change, he would have thought he’d be involved somehow. Not that he’d be the one to personally _fix_ Malfoy, or that Malfoy would do it all to prove something to him, not necessarily, but—he’d have expected Malfoy to put on a show about it, at least. He’d have expected Malfoy to make sure Harry was watching.

But Harry wasn’t watching; all of it happened just outside his field of vision, and then he turned his head and suddenly Malfoy was Luna’s new best friend. Malfoy was around, and Malfoy was on good terms with all the people who were on good terms with Harry, and Ginny and Neville and Hermione and everyone were all telling Harry that Malfoy wasn’t all that bad anymore. Peripherally, Harry was aware of the steps it took. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy approach people one by one and privately, personally apologise for the way he’d behaved in the past. Hermione didn’t relay any of their conversation, but she did say she very much appreciated the effort it had taken to say he was sorry. Ginny was more forthcoming; Malfoy had apologised for every rude thing he’d ever said to or about her, including way back when in second year he had, in his own words, ‘trivialised what must have been an incredibly traumatising ordeal for her’ in making cruel jokes about her experience in the Chamber of Secrets.

At the time, Ginny had said, “It was a nice gesture, I suppose, but it doesn’t erase what an awful person he’s been, or the terrible things he’s done.” But now she’s telling Harry he’s _not that bad_ , and everything is wrong.

Harry hasn’t been alone with Malfoy in a very long time, not since late August of last year, when Malfoy sent him an owl asking if he could meet with Harry before the start of term and then came by Grimmauld Place. Malfoy didn’t offer apologies, though. Harry hadn’t expected any, but what Malfoy did give him wasn’t anything Harry had expected either. Malfoy _thanked_ him. Malfoy, awkward but unsettlingly earnest, expressed his gratitude to Harry and wasn’t the slightest bit nasty about it. And Harry tried to understand this but couldn’t, and then Malfoy was apologising to everyone and Harry didn’t understand it, and then Malfoy and Luna became attached at the hip and Harry still didn’t understand it, and now they’re all on a trip together and Harry doesn’t understand it but is going to have to share a bed with him all the same.

It’s enough to put anyone on edge, really.

But Harry is the nice one. Malfoy—the old Malfoy—was judgemental and abrasive and elitist and scathing, but Harry is none of those things. Harry is nice, and he accepts people, even when other people won’t. He can’t say, _Malfoy may have apologised to all of you, but he never apologised to me_. That isn’t something you’re allowed to say when someone is trying as hard as Malfoy is, when someone has researched everything his travelling companions might need or want to know about this city and is doing his best to make the whole trip go as smoothly and comfortably as possible.

Harry is supposed to be the nice one, but right now Malfoy is.

When the long wait in line is finally over and they step out onto the deck, Malfoy leads them around its perimeter, pointing out important landmarks and the various places they’re going to visit this week. At this point, it isn’t surprising that Malfoy seems to have the whole trip’s itinerary memorised, and it strikes Harry that he doesn’t actually know much of what they’ll be doing. There will be historic and iconic sights, he knows that much, and museums, and theatre. They’ll be eating a lot of very good food, as Luna has brought up again and again with hearts in her eyes.

Harry has only vaguely thought about all of that, though. For the most part, he’s been preparing for nine days with the same three people and no access to Ron or Hermione or anyone else. Luna and Ginny, though, seem to know what Malfoy’s talking about. All three of them are thrilled to be here, even as cold and crowded as it is. Harry’s the only reluctant one here.

For Luna and Ginny, then. For Luna and Ginny, because they deserve it, and for Malfoy, because he’s trying so hard.

:

The day is all right, after that. Harry decides it’s all right, and it is. He lets Malfoy play the accommodating, knowledgeable guide and almost forgets who he really is (or was). (It becomes much easier when he starts to pretend the fourth member of their party is a stranger, a friend of Luna’s she brought along because he happened to know the area. Helpfully, Malfoy happens to avoid saying or doing anything that would break this illusion.)

Malfoy leads them across many streets to Times Square, where the bright lights, flashing advertisements, and tightly packed crowds take the city’s general overstimulation to another level. They eat dinner at a restaurant overlooking the spectacle, at a table by the window. Harry elects to sit with his back to it.

After dinner is a musical, something based on a book Luna and Malfoy have both read, with a French title that sounds caught in their throats. Harry finds himself moved by the emotions but for the most part baffled by the plot, due in part to not being able to distinguish half the lyrics (and the entire show being sung) and in part to how very many characters the show seemed to have. When they leave the theatre, Luna says, “Well, that was very nice music, wasn’t it?” with a contented smile. Ginny and Malfoy, on the other hand, wind up in a lengthy discussion about the morality of the characters’ choices, which lasts for the entirety of the walk back to their hotel.

It’s in the hotel room that things become uncomfortable again. Ginny excuses herself from the conversation with Malfoy and disappears into the bathroom, Luna goes into the bedroom, and Malfoy—Malfoy produces his wand and points it at the sofa, which unfolds itself neatly.

Harry eyes the wand despondently. The American Wizarding community is not so free-handed with their memory charms as the British community, instead adhering to much stricter secrecy laws. A condition of their entry into the country was that they would do no magic that leaves physical evidence of itself—no transfigurations, no conjurings, no charms that leave the slightest visible effect. While it would certainly be possible for them to do these things and clean up after themselves before any muggles had seen, it was a hard and fast policy with no room for accommodating exceptions based on trustworthiness (not even for Harry Potter). Magic not falling under that umbrella could be done only behind closed doors with no muggles present.

He would have liked to conjure a second bed, or to transfigure the coffee table into one, but there was a chance (even slight) that the hotel staff would see it, and so it was not an option.

“It’ll do, I suppose,” Malfoy says, seeming to measure it with his eyes. He glances to Harry then. “Are you sure you’re all right with this?”

He’d said he was, over dinner, but now he’s less sure. It’s generously sized, yes, but he does move around in his sleep sometimes—

He cuts off that train of thought before it can get anywhere. It’s all right. He decided it was all right.

He shrugs. “Sure—yeah. All right.”

Malfoy purses his lips. “If we keep to our sides—”

“I said _all right_.”

“No need to get testy,” Malfoy says, beginning to sound a bit testy himself.

He goes to his suitcase, and Harry lets himself sit down on the foot of the bed. Malfoy pulls neatly folded black garments out and holds them rigidly in his hands, and when he speaks, his voice has that familiar uppity quality that Harry hasn’t heard in a while. “If you can just act like an adult, it will be fine. I’ll stick to my side, and you’ll stick to your side, and it will be hardly different from sharing a dormitory.”

Harry wants to point out that they have never shared a dormitory and that he’d be more than happy to sleep on a double bed with Ron or Neville or Dean or Seamus, but it seems counterproductive to mention.

Ginny emerges from the bathroom then, yawning, and Malfoy is quick to switch places with her. Ginny perches on the bed and elbow’s Harry’s side. “Sorry,” she says, but her grin belies her sincerity.

“He says it’ll be fine if I can ‘just act like an adult’,” Harry mutters, and Ginny’s laugh bursts out before she manages to cover her mouth with her hands.

“He forgets to be polite when it’s just the two of you, doesn’t he,” she says. Harry doesn’t really understand how this is something she can say with amusement.

Luna pokes her head out of the bedroom and, seeing them on the sofa bed together, comes to sit on Ginny’s other side. “Today was very nice,” she says.

“You sound like you want to say ‘nice, but…’” Ginny says, and yawns again.

“Today was very nice,” Luna says again, and pauses to echo Ginny’s yawn, “but we did a lot of walking, and I’m very tired.”

“So am I,” Ginny agrees, leaning her head on Luna’s shoulder. “We don’t have to be up early, do we?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing set in stone before lunch, and then not even that.”

“Excellent,” Ginny mumbles (partially into Luna’s neck). “Let’s not set alarms.”

Malfoy comes out of the bathroom clad in silky black pyjamas, and Ginny’s next yawn turns into a giggle. “Dashing, Malfoy. Really.”

Harry would not have got away with that, but Ginny only receives an eye-roll for her efforts. Luna pats his shoulder on her way into the bathroom, and he smiles slightly.

“We’re not setting alarms tomorrow,” Ginny tells Malfoy, who shrugs.

“That’s fine. I assumed we’d need a bit of time to adjust to the time difference and such, so tomorrow and Monday are very flexible.”

He takes a step toward the bed, but steps back again almost immediately, finally electing instead to sit at one of the chairs at the table. He crosses one leg over the other and stares at Harry and Ginny with a blank expression. Harry stares back, and the silence is unbroken until Ginny yawns yet again and stands up abruptly, with a creak from the sofa bed that is feels comparatively loud. Without a word, she goes into the bathroom, which Luna must have vacated while Harry wasn’t looking.

This springs Malfoy into action. He stands and moves to the window, looking out at the city for a moment before drawing the curtains closed.

“I’d rather the light not wake us and substitute for an alarm,” he says. “I can’t sleep at all in a room that isn’t good and dark. After all those—” he stumbles for a moment, but continues. “After all those years in the Slytherin dorms, it just seems odd to be in a bedroom with windows. This isn’t a real bedroom, obviously, but a room I’m sleeping in, is all I mean.”

Harry stares. First Malfoy sits in silence for what feels like an age, and now he won’t stop babbling?

“Was Ginny being serious when she said you snore and move around a lot and hog the covers?” Malfoy asks. There’s an odd, false brightness to his voice.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t snore. Or hog the covers.”

Malfoy doesn’t comment on the omission of the third. “Brilliant. Well. It’ll be just fine. I don’t move at all, or anything else, so you can just pretend I’m not here, and I’ll pretend you’re not here, and we won’t be able to see each other with the lights out, so it will be just like sleeping alone, really. You know what, I’ll get in now, and turn off the light on my side, and once you’ve changed into your pyjamas you can turn off—”

“I don’t wear pyjamas.”

“You sleep in the nude?” Malfoy says, the brightness gone from his tone.

“I sleep in my pants,” Harry clarifies. “But is sleeping naked so unheard of?”

“You aren’t sleeping in your pants in bed with _me_.”

“I’m a very warm sleeper. I don’t like to get too hot.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“A trick to _what_?” He almost laughs. “What could I gain from sleeping next to you in my pants? Should I be concerned that _you_ might take advantage of _me_?”

Malfoy balks at that. “I don’t—I wouldn’t—”

“Then why is it such a problem?”

He pauses, studying Harry, who tenses under his gaze. Then, finally, “Can you at least wear a shirt?”

“Fine. I’ll wear t-shirts to bed, all right?”

“Good,” Malfoy says, raising his chin. “We must at least keep the pretence of being civilised.”

At that moment, Ginny reenters from the bathroom, now wearing a very large t-shirt and nothing else. “What on earth are you arguing about?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy says. “It’s resolved.”

“Is Ginny some sort of uncivilised barbarian, then?” Harry asks.

“What’s that?” Ginny asks, looking back and forth between them.

“Of course not,” Malfoy says, seeming confused.

“She’s not wearing much,” Harry points out.

“Hey!” Ginny exclaims, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m plenty covered, thank you very much.”

“Malfoy was offended that I didn’t pack pyjamas,” Harry tells her. “Apparently this is uncivilised.”

“Harry sleeps naked,” Ginny says to Malfoy. “He doesn’t own pyjamas.”

Malfoy takes a step away from both of them, aghast.

“I wasn’t going to sleep naked!” Harry near-shouts. “I was going to sleep in my pants!”

Luna appears in the bedroom doorway. “Harry sleeps naked?”

Harry holds his head in his hands. “I wasn’t—”

“I do too, Harry,” Luna says.

Ginny eyes her. “But aren’t you wearing that to bed?”

Luna smooths her hands down the sides of her silky, knee-length nightgown. “Yes, I thought I’d preserve Draco’s modesty. Or yours, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy says, and gives Harry a pointed look. “If only everyone could be so courteous.”

“I didn’t know I’d be sleeping with you!”

Malfoy sniffs, somehow packing large amounts of disdain into the tiny action. “You flatter yourself.”

“Not _sleeping_ —Malfoy, I _didn’t know we’d be sharing a bed._ ”

“As thrilling and conclusive as this argument is sure to be,” Ginny says. “Can we please just go to sleep?”

“I will if he’ll wear clothes,” Malfoy says.

“Malfoy,” Harry says, as calmly as he can manage, “I already agreed to wear a shirt.”

Malfoy throws up his hands. “Then it’s resolved, isn’t it!”

Luna bursts into laughter. “This is going to be such a fun week!” With that, she disappears back into the bedroom.

Ginny, her eyebrows raised, turns back to Harry and Malfoy. “Well, this is starting to seem less _funny_ and more _needlessly_ _tiresome_.” When neither of them respond, she rolls her eyes and says, “Good night, then.”

They both mutter _good night_ in turn, and Ginny leaves them.

Harry looks to Malfoy, who gives him a once-over and crosses his arms. Harry shrugs and starts to unbuckle his belt, but it feels very strange to do that with Malfoy’s eyes on him, so he turns around and takes his jeans off with the hope that Malfoy has stopped looking. When he sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his socks, he hears the bed creak under Malfoy’s weight as well.

Harry turns and indicates the t-shirt he’s still wearing. “Not removing it. Happy?”

“You’re going to sleep in the same shirt you’ve been wearing all day?”

Harry can’t suppress a groan at that.

Malfoy quickly says, “To each their own,” but still looks perturbed at the thought.

Harry sighs. “All _right_.” He rummages through his suitcase for another shirt and quickly changes into it, again trying not to focus on Malfoy’s eyes on his back. “Better?”

“However you’re most comfortable,” he says unconvincingly.

He peels back the covers on the side of the bed that has already been designated _his_ and starts to get settled. Harry begins to do the same, but Malfoy gives him a sharp look.

“What is it?” Harry follows the line of his gaze and groans. “Really, Malfoy?”

“You did say you were a warm sleeper.”

Harry doesn’t bother arguing. He replaces the topsheet and lies on top of it, but underneath the comforter. He rolls onto his right side, his back to Malfoy, and turns out his light. And, as Malfoy said before, he pretends he’s alone as he falls asleep.

:

Malfoy packed his clothes in outfits. His suitcase holds a neat stack of many smaller stacks, the organisation so careful that Harry tries not to open his own messily packed suitcase wide enough for the others to see inside. Even without alarms, they’re all awake a little after eight in the morning. Harry had assumed they’d have a much later start to the day, but as Ginny points out, it’s already past one in the afternoon in their usual time zone.

This affords them a leisurely morning, though, each of them taking their time in the bathroom. On their way out of the hotel, they stop in the lobby for coffee and pastries. Harry doesn’t like the bitter taste of coffee at all and needs a lot of milk and sugar. Ginny uses less of each, Malfoy only sugar, and Luna drinks hers black. She explains to Ginny the health benefits of black coffee as they start to walk, and thanks to her usual certainty, Harry isn’t sure whether this is an actual health fact or just one of those Luna things.

“All right, I believe we enter here,” Malfoy says, stopping them and indicating a stairway leading underground. Harry starts down but pauses halfway when he realises none of them are following. Instead, Malfoy is standing still at the mouth of the entrance with the girls on either side of him, and he looks almost _nervous_.

Harry sidesteps a harried stranger as she passes, and comes back up to join them.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s not a problem,” Malfoy starts, but Ginny interrupts.

“He’s nervous about muggle technology.”

“I’m not,” he counters, his face flushing. Two men in puffy coats push past them to the stairs, and the four of them move off to the side.

“I’m nervous too,” Ginny says, “if that makes you feel any better. I’ve never been on the Underground or anything like that, and—I mean, I know it works, but it still seems implausible, you know?”

Harry nods. He still feels that way when he encounters new magic, sometimes.

“I know millions of people use it every day,” Malfoy says. “I _know_ it works. But, well—it does fail sometimes, also. And I don’t much like the idea of being trapped underground in a metal object if it does. We’re going under a river, did I mention that?”

Luna contemplates this for a moment, and then, “You’ve been in the lifts at the Ministry, right?”

Malfoy nods.

“Well, those are underground metal contraptions that transport humans. And they’re much smaller, and from what I’ve heard they malfunction somewhat regularly. If you can trust those, you can trust these, right?”

It works. Malfoy smiles, and he links his hand in Luna’s as they descend the stairs.

“They do that a lot, don’t they?” Harry says to Ginny, remembering that the two of them had done this every time they’d been in the lifts so far on this trip.

“I think it’s for Luna,” Ginny says quietly. “She isn’t very fond of being in small spaces, or underground.”

Harry opens his mouth to say that it was _Malfoy_ who was nervous about this, not Luna, but then he remembers her time in the Malfoys’ cellar, and he closes it. Not Luna comforting Malfoy, but the other way around. He had to have known on some level that their friendship involved reciprocation, but seeing it is something else.

:

The subway is very warm, but once they resurface—on the other side of the East River, as Malfoy said—they spend most of the day out in the cold. Malfoy resume’s his running commentary on the history, today introducing them to Brooklyn, another one of New York’s boroughs. They eat lunch in a cozy and bustling Italian restaurant, but the rest of the day is spent on their feet. Luna bought a muggle camera just for this trip, and she does not stop taking pictures for a minute, both of Brooklyn and of the view of Manhattan across the river. They take a boat to the Statue of Liberty, up along the Hudson River on the other side of Manhattan, and then back down to Brooklyn, finally crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge on the walking path, with cars below them. Once on the other side, Ginny insists on taking the subway again on their way to dinner, as her feet can’t take any more walking, and the others agree. Dinner is warm relief after the long day, and by the time they return to their hotel Harry thinks he just might be too tired to feel awkward about Malfoy.

A naive assumption, as it turns out. Despite the sense of camaraderie that seemed to develop during the sightseeing, the same tension resurfaces once it’s just the two of them. Harry gets the distinct impression that there is something Malfoy wants to say to him, but neither of them breaks the silence.

Once the curtains are drawn and the lights are out, Harry again tells himself he’s alone.

:

The morning continues in the same vein, much to Harry’s frustration. He attempts to wank in the shower to relax a bit, but he keeps finding himself thinking instead of the how Malfoy’s hair was sticking up in the back when he woke up this morning, and how the left side of the collar of his pyjama shirt had flipped up, making him look uneven.

A quiet Malfoy is preferable to a tense, babbling Malfoy, but Harry finds this version even more confusing.

Whether because they’ve done a better job of adjusting to this time zone or because they find it much easier than Harry or Malfoy do to wake up gradually and not immediately get out of bed (whereas Harry begins to feel uncomfortable within a minute of being awake and continuing to lie in bed with Malfoy), Ginny and Luna are slow in the morning. Harry and Malfoy go down to the lobby to get the coffee and bring it back up to them. It is tense in the elevator and as they wait at the counter, the silence full of Harry not knowing what to say but also being sure that Malfoy is holding back from saying something. Harry watches Malfoy dump the sugar into his coffee and wishes he’d stayed upstairs and let Malfoy go alone. He wonders whether it would be all right to just ask.

Most of Monday is spent shopping. Harry doesn’t feel any particular inclination to buy anything, and Ginny doesn’t have the money for it, but there is a contagious festivity to New York in December. The streets are decorated with wreaths and ribbons and lights, and every store seems to have dressed up their window display for the occasion. As far as Harry can tell, Malfoy is legitimately shopping. Luna says Xenophilius gave her enough money to treat herself, but it all depends on whether she finds anything special enough. In the late afternoon, they part ways, Harry and Ginny leaving them to their expensive department stores in favour of walking along and appreciating all the decorations. The initial plan is to reunite for dinner, but their planned meeting place is so crowded full of people that when Ginny says they might as well eat on their own, Harry doesn’t argue.

When they get back to the hotel room, Luna and Malfoy are already there, sitting and talking at the table. Ginny excuses herself to bed almost immediately, and after asking Harry about what they did with their evening (people-watching in Times Square while eating incredibly large cupcakes), Luna retires as well.

Harry assumes Malfoy will continue his silent routine, and the words catch him off guard when he comes.

“What would it take for you to forgive me?”

Harry is so surprised, in fact, that he can only stare openmouthed for several moments. He hadn’t thought Malfoy would speak at all, but if he’d taken a guess at what Malfoy _would_ say, that would not have been it.

“Forgive you?” he says, finally.

“You’re still treating me like I’m some sort of criminal,” Malfoy says, sounding both bitter and apologetic. “I find this somewhat ironic, given that it was thanks in large part to you that I was completely acquitted, but here we are.”

“I don’t think you’re a criminal.”

“An evil person, then,” Malfoy says offhand, as though the specific term is not important.

“I don’t think you’re evil, either.”

“Then what is your problem with me?”

Harry wants to say _I don’t have a problem with you_ , but his behaviour over the past couple of days would suggest otherwise, wouldn’t it?

“I thought we’d put the past behind us,” Malfoy says, his voice quiet. “You haven’t made any sort of fuss in over a year, and I thought this trip would be fine, but suddenly—”

“This is different,” Harry says. “We haven’t had to share a bed or anything before, now have we?”

Malfoy balks. “It’s because I’m gay, then?”

“You’re gay?” Harry says immediately. More immediately than seems appropriate, and he feels his face heat; he doesn’t want Malfoy to think he’s homophobic.

Though apparently he already does. “You didn’t know? Why else would you be so uncomfortable with sharing a bed with me, if that doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m not—I didn’t even know, so it couldn’t have bothered me, could it? And I really don’t think you’re evil. It’s just, well, we never got along particularly well even before the whole _war_ business, so what are we supposed to do now? How are we supposed to be friendly when we’ve never been friendly?”

“It’s not hard,” Malfoy says. Harry gets the impression he’s attempting to appear disdainful, but he’s coming across more _pleased_ than anything else.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “you’ve been doing an all right job of it.”

And then Malfoy definitely looks pleased.

:

That night, they go to sleep the same way they have every night, with the room fully dark and their backs to each other, but when Harry wakes up, he finds he’s rolled over in his sleep. Rather than firmly on his side of the mattress, where he started, he’s over on Malfoy’s side, facing his back. They aren’t quite touching, though Harry thinks his cheek might have been against Malfoy’s shoulder blade before he woke, but the proximity is odd. Not uncomfortable, but odd.

It’s odd how yesterday or the day before, Harry would have immediately sprung out of bed and tried to forget he’d moved at all, but this morning, Harry lies still for a minute before rising. He pays attention to Malfoy’s breaths, telling himself this is to check that Malfoy is still asleep and hasn’t noticed Harry’s closeness.

He tries to have a relaxing wank in the shower again, and this time it works. He is again distracted by thoughts of Malfoy, but the distraction is of a rather different sort.

Malfoy is gay. It had never occurred to Harry that Malfoy could be gay. Malfoy had thought Harry was uncomfortable because he knew, but Harry thinks it actually explains a lot of Malfoy’s own discomfort.

When he comes out of the shower, Malfoy has already gone downstairs for coffee. He hands Harry one of the four cups, and when Harry takes a sip, it doesn’t taste bitter.

:

Today they visit the Museum of Modern Art, and while Harry has never been particularly interested in art, he’s very glad to spend most of the day indoors. When they arrive, Luna immediately states that art is best appreciated in solitary contemplation and wanders off on her own, and Malfoy has a specific floor he wants to see at length, so Harry and Ginny decide to start at the top and make their way down.

Ginny isn’t much of an art person either, and the pair of them wind up quietly making fun of a lot of it. Eventually, Ginny sits down on a cushioned bench in front of a large seascape and declares that she’s done being on her feet, for now, and Harry will have to continue on without her. Figuring he might as well, Harry does indeed continue on, only to find himself similarly tired of standing when he reaches the next floor. He finds a bench across from an odd painting of a very pregnant woman and closes his eyes for a moment.

When he feels the seat cushion shift as a person sits beside him, he assumes it’s a stranger who just wants to take a nice long look at the painting, or perhaps is also tired of being on their feet, but no—it’s Malfoy.

“Is the art boring you?”

Harry laughs, surprising himself. “Just wanted to take a break for a minute.”

“I won’t be offended or anything,” Malfoy says with a small smile. “I enjoy this, but I know it’s not for everyone. Same goes for all of this—you can feel free to hate the itinerary. It’s all for Luna’s enjoyment, really.”

And Harry surprises himself again by asking, after a moment, “How did that happen, anyway?”

“How did what happen?”

“You and Luna,” he says, feeling bold. “It’s been a while at this point, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story there.”

“Is there usually a story to friendships?” Malfoy asks. He looks vaguely amused. “It’s more of a process than an event, I’d say.”

Harry thinks of meeting Ron on the train and saving Hermione from the troll, and he shrugs. “You never used to run in the same circles, and then at some point you became friends. I just wondered—”

“It wasn’t at a particular point, though, is what I’m saying. It happened bit by bit. She was kind to me, and I wanted to be kind to her, and eventually we started to get closer.” Harry must look unsatisfied by this answer because Malfoy laughs shortly and backtracks. “All right, I guess it was seventh year. During the worst of it, while you lot weren’t at Hogwarts and the Death Eaters were running it. I was miserable, and she saw that I was miserable, and she was nice to me. Just once. And then I had to take her from the Hogwarts express—”

“ _You_ did?” Harry interrupts. He’d never heard that before.

“Not alone, but yes. They needed someone already on the train to find out where she was, to ensure it all went smoothly. And I felt awful, obviously, because she’d been kind to me, but with the Dark Lord in my house I couldn’t do much for her, so I tried my best to do what little I could. Real food for her and Mr Ollivander, mostly. When I later apologised to her she told me she’d already forgiven me, and she even thanked me for trying to help. And it went from there, I suppose.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Harry contemplating what Malfoy has told him. He’d always thought it began in eighth year from nothing, and that Malfoy had an unrelated personality switch the summer before, but this makes sense. The disparate pieces fit together, and the person beside Harry seems much less of a frustrating enigma.

“Did you want to keep looking at the art?” Harry asks.

Malfoy doesn’t answer. When Harry looks over at him, he’s frowning slightly, and Harry realises his words could have easily been taken as a dismissal.

“I thought perhaps you could tell me about some of it,” he offers. “I think that would keep me from getting bored.” He pauses. “You know things about art, right? Or am I making an arse of myself?”

“I know things about art,” Malfoy says, grinning.

“Would you like to tell me things about art?”

He would, as it turns out, and he does.

By the time they leave the museum, Harry has seen just about everything it has to offer (including a few things more than once, as Malfoy had a bit to say about some of what Harry had already seen by the time they started). He still doesn’t feel a particular interest, but hearing Malfoy talk about it, listening to his opinions and watching his hands fly as he talks, was anything but boring.

The evening takes them to another musical, which Harry finds himself enjoying much more. The plot is much easier for him to follow ( _because it’s aimed at children_ , Malfoy would say if Harry expressed this out loud), and the visuals are so stunning that it would have been a good time even if the music and story had been terrible. The large animal puppets are so extraordinary that Luna deems the show ‘better than magic’ as they walk back to the hotel.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Malfoy says, but his tone is good-humoured.

“I heard one of the girls near us say there was a film version,” Ginny says. “A—a toy car. A whatsit.”

“A cartoon?” Harry supplies.

She nods. “We should watch it sometime.”

“Definitely not tonight,” Malfoy says. “I’m exhausted.”

Even so, he seems more at ease as they all get ready for bed than he has on any of the previous nights. The shift in attitude when it’s just them without the girls has gone completely; Harry hoped it would be, after their time at the museum and the conversation the night before, but he was slightly concerned it would return once they were back in the hotel suite and preparing for another night on the sofa bed. But Malfoy gets ready just as he always does, and keeps talking the way he has been all day. And after they both climb into their respective sides of the bed and turn off their lights, Malfoy precedes the silence with, “Good night, Potter.”

:

When Harry wakes up, he’s rolled over onto Malfoy’s side of the bed again. This time, though, they’re definitely touching. And it isn’t morning yet.

Harry is hard, and his erection is pressed against the back of one of Malfoy’s thighs. His right arm is caught between his own chest and Malfoy’s back. Malfoy shifts, slightly, and Harry thinks perhaps it was Malfoy moving that woke him up. He thinks, maybe, Malfoy is awake.

“Malfoy,” he whispers, meaning it to be a question but saying it like a statement.

He is awake. He slowly rolls so that he is fully on his side, bumping into Harry’s arm, and Harry continues the motion until Malfoy is on his back. Malfoy is breathing heavily, unevenly, and as Harry listens he realises that he is as well. Harry can’t see Malfoy’s face in this light, can’t see much of anything, but he imagines that he is flushed pink. Maybe he isn’t. But Harry likes the image of it a lot.

His arm is on Malfoy’s abdomen, resting on his stomach muscles as they rise and fall, just below his ribcage. He hears the wet sound of Malfoy swallowing hard, and the slight smack of wet lips parting.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, and it is a statement too.

Harry’s hand moves lower, down Malfoy’s rising and falling stomach. His t-shirt is rucked up on his left side, the side that had been against the mattress. His skin is very soft, and so warm. The air around them feels suddenly cooler in contrast to the heat of it.

Harry’s hand continues its slow but unfaltering movement, flat against Malfoy’s skin, and it doesn’t even cross his mind to stop it. His fingers slip under Malfoy’s pyjama bottoms easily.

He thinks Malfoy should speak, should say he wants this or say he doesn’t, but all Harry hears is another wet swallow and his heavy breathing. And then—a hitch in his breathing, and a slight tilt of his hips, and Harry’s hand brushes against Malfoy’s hard cock.

Malfoy gasps, and his hips jerk forward.

It’s not particularly elegant. It’s not dignified, or practised, or even all that _nice_. Harry’s left arm starts to ache where he’s resting his weight on it, and he has to shift his legs over partway through, and the angle is strange, and it really would be better if one of them reached for some sort of lube. But Malfoy’s breathing is ragged and he is hot in Harry’s hand, and his hand bumps against Harry’s thigh on its way to press against Harry’s own erection through the fabric of his underpants. He doesn’t even wrap his hand around it, just rubs against it as Harry jerks him off, but it’s enough to bring Harry all the way to the edge, all the way to the point of turning his hips toward the mattress and rutting against Malfoy’s hand as he tightens his own grip and makes Malfoy make a sound he doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. It comes a second time, now muffled, and a third, longer, and Malfoy’s hips still, and Harry feels warm wetness between his fingers. Malfoy’s hand curls around Harry’s cock then, pressing up against him, and Harry comes too, biting down hard on his lip.

Harry lets his left arm flatten under him, his face pressing down into the mattress. He lies still as his breathing slows to something more regular, and he’s vaguely conscious of Malfoy’s breaths matching his, and slowing down too. Malfoy’s arm is caught underneath Harry’s body, his hand pressed into the crease where Harry’s thigh meets his groin. Harry twists his hips halfheartedly, not wanting to move, and Malfoy moves his hand as though trying to free it, but he only gets it as far as Harry’s stomach and appears to give up.

Harry realises then that his hand is still in Malfoy’s pyjama bottoms, and he extracts it carefully. Three wandless cleaning charms later, his hand, his crotch, and presumably Malfoy’s crotch are all cleaned up. Malfoy makes a small noise, perhaps from the unexpected sensation of it.

He waits for Malfoy to say something, or do something, but they lie there motionless, the only sounds in the room their slow breaths and the distant noise of cars at street level. Eventually, as Harry is beginning to feel heavy with sleep, Malfoy tugs his arm free from beneath him, and the mattress shifts as he rolls over and away.

:

He wakes up with his right leg hooked around Malfoy’s; Malfoy has rolled onto his back, and Harry has rolled toward him onto his stomach. Malfoy is already awake, his head tilted away from Harry like he’s looking at the far wall, but there’s nothing to see over there.

Harry shifts his leg, intending to untangle them, but it gets caught on the sheet. Malfoy doesn’t move to assist as Harry remedies this, but his head rolls so that he’s facing Harry.

His leg freed, Harry looks up at him. Malfoy’s expression is unreadable, and his eyes are still slightly unfocused with sleep. Harry stares at him, right on the edge of saying something. ( _So last night_ ….) But before he so much as opens his mouth, Malfoy sits up, throws the covers aside, and goes to the bathroom.

All right, then.

:

He expects Malfoy to say something, _anything_ about it at some point in the day, and the longer they go without bringing it up the more Harry is convinced that Malfoy is going to surprise him with it once he’s finally let his guard down. But Malfoy goes the whole day without saying a thing about it, and even seems to revert back to minimising interaction with Harry altogether. It’s not as though his behaviour qualifies as _unusual_ when it’s more similar to what his behaviour towards Harry has been for the past year than any of the ways he’s acted so far on this trip, but it leaves Harry off-balance again.

The morning is spent at another museum, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Without Malfoy offering his knowledge (or rather, a way to bring Harry’s interest up a thousandfold), Harry spends much of it just sitting around on the various benches, sometimes looking at art but often simply contemplating what happened, and trying to understand why Malfoy would warm up to him one day and draw back the next.

He is still perfectly polite when it’s all four of them, despite not directly engaging Harry in the conversation with frequency, and Harry takes this as a good sign. He tries not to think too much about what he wants it to be a sign _for_.

“I would have loved to see the opera during the trip,” Luna says wistfully over lunch; they’d passed an enormous ad for it on the way to this café.

“What’s stopping you?” Harry asks.

“Well, it wasn’t included,” Luna says, as though that’s the clear end of it.

“But you could go anyway, right?”

“It’s expensive,” Luna points out.

“I could pay for the tickets,” Harry says. “I could afford to.”

“Oh, well if you’d like to go—”

“Not for me,” Harry says. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it much at all.”

“Neither would I,” Ginny says with a laugh.

“But you’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?” Harry asks.

Malfoy, surprised and caught mid-chew, nods once, staring at Harry with furrowed brows.

“Great! The pair of you can enjoy some culture, while Ginny and I do something uncivilised. There’s room in the itinerary, I hope?”

Malfoy, having swallowed, says, “I think Friday night would work, if we can manage tickets.”

“Perfect,” Ginny says, throwing an arm over Harry’s shoulders. “So while they do that, we can get good and pissed, or something.”

Malfoy gives her an odd look, but he quickly follows it up with a casual jab at her taste level, and the pair of them bicker jokingly for the rest of the meal.

After lunch, the plan is to go to the Natural History Museum, but Harry is feeling very, very done with museums now. They protest at first, but eventually agree to meet back up for dinner.

The museum is by Central Park, which Harry remembers seeing from the Empire State Building on their first afternoon. Enormous and seemingly patternless, it seems like an excellent place to get a bit lost in this bustling grid of a city. He imagines it’s more popular in warmer weather, but right now the chill and the quiet is exactly what he needs.

He isn’t sure what he wants. Figuring Malfoy out has been a goal of Harry’s for a long time now, but now that he’s starting to think it might be something he can actually do, he’s also realising that it would not be the simple solution he’s hoped for. He will not discover a single answer that converts Malfoy from ‘confusing enigma’ to ‘understood and mundane’. Understanding Malfoy, if that’s what he wants to do, will be a constant challenge—perhaps never-ending. It may involve some amount of understanding himself, as well.

They could be friends, perhaps. They could grow closer the way Malfoy and Luna did, bit by bit. Or—they could be something other than friends. A different category altogether.

Harry walks around the park for a while. He walks, and he thinks.

:

That night, he lies on his back, very aware of the divide between _his_ side of the bed and _Malfoy’s_ side. Malfoy is facing the far wall, the slant of his back only just distinguishable in this muffled light.

Nothing is happening. Harry thinks—well, he thought perhaps once they were alone again, Malfoy would warm up to him again, as it were. He won’t be the one to do it, though. He doesn’t want it, or anything. He isn’t _hoping_ for it. He’s trying to fall asleep. If he had the bed to himself, he’d be asleep. If Luna hadn’t invited Malfoy along on this trip, he’d have the bed to himself, and he’d be asleep.

Well. If he had the bed to himself, he’d be wanking. And then, once that was done, he’d be asleep.

But if Luna hadn’t invited Malfoy along, nothing would have happened last night, and he wouldn’t be thinking about it now, so he wouldn’t feel the need to wank, and he’d already be asleep.

Not that thinking about Malfoy or what happened is making him need to wank, or anything.

He exhales roughly, and regrets it the moment he realises how incredibly loud it seemed in the quiet. He wasn’t trying to get Malfoy’s attention with it. He was just breathing. It wasn’t supposed to—

The mattress creaks, and the outline of Malfoy’s shape shifts in the darkness. He’s facing Harry.

“Are you hard?” he asks plainly.

Harry clears his throat before responding. “What?”

“You’re hard, aren’t you?” There is no trace of embarrassment in his voice.

Harry doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Though he supposes someone who wasn’t hard would be able to easily answer in the negative, with a great deal of indignation.

Then Malfoy’s hand is brushing his hip, and tugging at the waistband of his pants, and gripping his erection confidently. Harry expects him to say something insulting about how incredibly easy Harry is, or obvious, or predictable, but he simply begins moving his hand in a steady rhythm, every now and again twisting his wrist or flicking over the head with his thumb. After a bit, he pauses, forcing a quiet groan of protest from Harry, but he only scoots closer on the bed and starts up again. His leg nudges between Harry’s, and then Malfoy’s erection is pressed against Harry’s thigh. Malfoy shifts his hips slowly, much more slowly than his hand on Harry, seeming to seek gratification but not release.

Harry thrusts up into Malfoy’s fist, his hips jerking helplessly as he gets closer. Malfoy pauses again, tearing a moan from Harry’s throat, and then he’s using both hands, his right taking over on Harry’s cock as his left cups Harry’s balls and then moves to stroke the skin behind them.

It hits him in a rush, heat spreading all at once up his chest and down his thighs, and he feels shaky with it as he starts to come down. His hands have come up to grab Malfoy, his right on Malfoy’s shoulder and his left fisted in Malfoy’s t-shirt. Catching his breath, he pushes Malfoy onto his back. Their positions reversed, he finishes Malfoy off quickly. Malfoy makes a tight, high noise just before he comes, and the next sounds are muffled by his own hand on his mouth. Harry can hear him take his hand away, hear him start to breathe through his mouth again and not in sharp puffs through his nose. He leaves his hand wrapped around Malfoy’s cock for several long moments, until Malfoy shifts with a small grunt, prompting him to remove his hand and do several wandless cleaning charms again.

He thinks they might talk about it this time, or that Malfoy might at least make a snide remark, but neither says anything. Harry doesn’t know what to say. And then the mattress is creaking again, and Malfoy has rolled back onto his side.

Harry eyes the faint silhouette of his back, the sharp angle of his shoulder. He rolls to face the other direction and closes his eyes.

:

They have to rush through Thursday morning a bit more quickly than usual; unlike previous mornings with no time constraints, today they want to be at St. Patrick’s Cathedral by ten for the tour. They make their way on foot, Malfoy leading the way as usual, and all of them clutching their usual coffee cups.

Though Harry would never have chosen a cathedral visit were he constructing his own itinerary, it really is amazing to see a building like that sandwiched amongst all the others. The architecture is beautiful, and though Harry again feels he can’t fully appreciate it, seeing the expressions on Ginny and Luna and Malfoy’s faces makes him glad to be there.

Afterwards, they come across an ice skating rink nearby, situated below one of the largest Christmas trees Harry has ever seen. For a moment, they all stop to take in the scene—the twinkling lights, the swirling skaters, everything gold and white and red and green. Then Luna says, “We should do that.”

None of them have skated before, in fact, but Luna insists it will be fun, and no one wants to ruin the mood by arguing with her. After about fifteen minutes of stumbling and going very, very slowly (and with the help of a kind pair of strangers who saw them struggling and gave them a few tips), they all manage to get going. Luna grabs Malfoy’s hand for support, and Harry instinctively reaches for Ginny’s before remembering that this isn’t something they do anymore, not now that they’ve broken up. He stays beside her as they do a loop around the rink, and as they go he notices just how many of the people around them are in couples, or appear to even be on a date.

To an outsider, they probably look like a set of two coupled friends out on a double date, and somehow that thought makes Harry very uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be wrong for a stranger to see him and Ginny and think that they could be dating, but Malfoy is gay, and people would definitely also assume he and Luna were dating. Harry knows he’s made that assumption himself—countless times, even—but it still rubs him the wrong way.

People would make assumptions, wouldn’t they, if Harry and Malfoy were ever something other than friends. A different sort of assumption. People who knew them and people who didn’t—people would assume, and they’d get things wrong. Harry has never had to confront this idea before.

On the next loop, Luna intercepts them and grabs Ginny’s hand now, having released Malfoy. Harry imagines grabbing Malfoy’s hand, and he laughs aloud.

In the afternoon, they wander a surprisingly quaint neighbourhood that feels a bit older than the sleek, shiny parts of the city, with trees along the sidewalks and roads that don’t conform to the city’s grid. There are fewer people here and those they do see appear to be in less of a hurry and accordingly, less likely to shove past them without apology. Ginny spots a pastry shop and insists they all eat macarons. They take them to a park that is cluttered with people despite the chill, and they sit and eat them on a cold stone bench. A large arch has the attention of most of the tourists and their cameras, and after Luna gets up to take her own pictures of it, she wanders the park taking pictures of everything else.

“ _The Phantom of the Opera_ tonight, right?” Ginny asks Malfoy, surprising Harry; the three of them had been sitting in silence.

On the other side of Ginny, Malfoy nods.

“Preparing you for the real opera tomorrow,” she says, grinning. “Maybe that one will be haunted as well.”

“The Phantom isn’t a real phantom,” Malfoy starts, but Ginny cuts him off.

“Don’t ruin it! The uncultured among us don’t already know the story,” she reminds him. And then, “But see, Malfoy, even without the real opera, we barbarians are still experiencing so much more culture than we ever would without you. How on earth can we thank you for showing us the light?”

Malfoy laughs, and blushes slightly at the genuine compliment embedded beneath the humour. “Saturday’s show is based on an opera. _La boheme_. They’re calling it a rock opera.”

“I think Harry and I can handle anything a step or two removed from real opera. Anything that’s been downgraded to appeal to the lowest common denominator, you know. That’s us.”

Malfoy looks past Ginny and meets Harry’s eyes, just for a moment, still smiling. When he looks away, Harry feels he’s somehow caught Malfoy’s smile, as though it transferred over in that moment, and his lips twitch with the effort of containing it.

Unfortunately, _The Phantom of the Opera_ appeals to Harry about as much as he expects the real opera would, and he avoids mentioning that the show aimed at children that featured giant animal puppets has been his favourite so far. Ginny and Luna insist on cheesecake before they return to the hotel but don’t want to bother with another sit-down restaurant like the one where they ate dinner, so they get it to take away and eat it at little outdoor tables in the middle of Times Square. Luna wants to try a bit of everyone’s, and somehow with all the exchanging and sampling, Harry finds himself tasting the chocolate cheesecake with Malfoy’s hand still on the other end of the fork. Their eyes meet for longer this time; Harry counts to five in his head before Malfoy looks away.

:

It’s going to happen again. Harry knows it, and he thinks Malfoy is certain as well; the quiet after the girls disappear to the bedroom feels different tonight. But Malfoy doesn’t say anything, or even look at him. He only goes to the window to draw the curtains, as usual, and turns off the light on his side table after getting into bed.

But he doesn’t roll onto his side. He lies there on his back, looking calm and unruffled, and not at all as uncomfortably eager as Harry is beginning to feel. He watches Harry coolly as he takes off his jeans and folds them and puts them on the coffee table, and as he folds back the covers and lies down and turns off his lamp.

Harry hesitates for a moment, lying there in the dark, listening for any movement from Malfoy’s side of the bed. And then he mentally berates himself because, after all, Malfoy started it yesterday, and Harry is not going to just passively lie there while it happens _to_ him. He’s just as much of an active party.

He turns to his side and feels Malfoy doing the same, and then Malfoy’s hand is rubbing him through his pants, and his hand is cupping Malfoy through his pyjama bottoms. Malfoy makes a soft sound and shifts closer, and Harry follows suit, nudging his leg between Malfoy’s. The backs of their hands bump against each other between them as they move. Then, all at once, Malfoy pushes Harry onto his back and rolls on top of him, grabbing Harry by the wrist and forcing his hand away. Harry is bewildered for a moment, until Malfoy moves his hips and their cocks rub against each other, just two layers of fabric between them. Malfoy’s cock is rubbing against Harry’s cock. Malfoy is moving on top of him, and through no conscious effort of his own, as though instinctively, Harry’s hips are moving in response.

His hand comes up to hold Malfoy’s side, to steady him, and he is oddly startled at how solid Malfoy feels, how different it is to feel him that close, and so heavy on top of him. Malfoy looks so thin— _is_ so thin—but his weight is still significant when he’s over Harry like this, and that detail hadn’t made it into Harry’s abstract imaginings of how this could go. He runs his hand up the curve of Malfoy’s back, all the way up to the back of his neck; Malfoy is bent low over him, his forehead resting against the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder.

Malfoy’s thigh moves out, and up, and Harry’s other hand moves to hold it, and he has the sudden, absurd realisation that he could touch Malfoy’s arse right now, if he wanted. If he can touch his cock, he can probably touch his arse. So he does. He grabs ahold of it, the fleshy curve of it, and squeezes, because he can. Malfoy lets out a strangled moan and grabs Harry’s shoulder, as though asking him to keep his hand where it is; he shifts his weight, grinding down harder against Harry, and moves his other hand to brace against Harry’s chest.

Harry moves the hand on Malfoy’s neck down his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath it, all the way down to his other arse cheek. He’s holding Malfoy’s arse, and Malfoy is on top of him, and they’re _dry humping_ , and regardless of what Harry has been thinking about over the last couple of days, he hadn’t fully grasped that this could _happen_.

Malfoy groans into Harry’s neck, right at the edge of the collar of his t-shirt, and his mouth on Harry’s skin feels amazing. His fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder feel amazing. All of it feels amazing. He wants it to keep going.

He brings his legs up, digging his heels into the mattress to get the leverage he needs to bring his hips up against Malfoy’s, all while holding his arse firmly down, so Malfoy is caught between his hands and his hips. Malfoy exhales sharply, his breath hot on Harry’s skin, and suddenly slows down, his body still rocking with Harry’s movements but no longer through his own.

“Wait,” Malfoy says, his voice rough, and he presses down on Harry’s shoulders, apparently trying to still him. He rises up, off of Harry, and Harry reluctantly releases his arse.

“What are you—”

“Just—wait one second.”

Malfoy climbs off the bed, making the mattress groan in protest, and Harry collapses, letting his limbs fall flat. He can’t imagine what could _possibly_ be so important at this exact moment that Malfoy would have to go take care of it right now. He worries, very briefly, that he crossed some line and Malfoy doesn’t want to anymore, but he said _wait_ , not _stop_.

But then he’s back, and tugging Harry’s underpants down, and shoving his shirt up, too. Harry takes it the rest of the way off, and he’s just pulling it over his head when Malfoy’s hand closes around his cock, and he doesn’t know what Malfoy went to get but it’s slick, whatever it is, and Malfoy is rubbing it all over his cock. And Malfoy is straddling him, and he’s taken off his pyjama bottoms, and his cock is slick too. He leans low over Harry, bracing a hand on his chest again, and his other hand brings Harry’s back to his arse.

“Better, yeah?” Malfoy says softly into his ear, and Harry nods before he remembers that Malfoy can’t see him.

“Yeah. It’s—good.”

Malfoy responds with a muffled groan against his neck. Harry is moving in earnest now, rocking up as Malfoy rocks down. He’s gripping Malfoy’s arse so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if there were bruises tomorrow, and the idea sends a shiver of excitement through him. Then Malfoy’s hand is moving between them, and Harry feels a sharp, hot pain as Malfoy bites down on his neck as he comes, moving frantically in Harry’s arms—and Harry is coming too, only barely keeping himself from shouting with it.

His hips gradually still, Malfoy letting out soft gasps with the last of the motion, and eventually they’re stationary. Malfoy’s t-shirt is sticky between them with sweat and come. Malfoy is probably flushed, with his hair sweaty and stuck to his forehead. Harry likes the thought of that.

Malfoy rolls off him after a time, but Harry stays where he is for the moment, letting his breathing steady and his heart stop racing. He feels Malfoy shifting next to him, hears the sound of fabric on fabric, and figures he must be dealing with his shirt and putting his pyjama bottoms back on. Harry realises then that his pants are still hanging off his right ankle, and he pulls them back up to where they should be. He feels too warm to put his t-shirt back on.

He starts to think about Malfoy, and whether he’ll sleep facing away from Harry again or if he might stay closer tonight, but before he can take note of Malfoy’s choice, sleep is already overtaking him.

:

Harry wakes up feeling almost giddy. He initially attributes this to whatever dream he must have been having before he woke, and then to the events of last night, and then again to the dream, since what happened last night definitely wouldn’t have him feeling _giddy_ this morning.

Malfoy is still asleep. Harry is on his side behind him, echoing the curve of his body. As though they’re spooning, but with a few inches of space between them.

He scoots away from Malfoy, careful not to disturb him, and puts his jeans on before going to the bathroom. When he sees himself in the mirror above the sink, he feels an abrupt flood of both embarrassment and satisfaction. Even after the night of sleep, he looks thoroughly debauched, his typical bedhead taking on a new implication when paired with the bruise at the side of his neck. His skin is darker than Malfoy’s and doesn’t bruise that easily (he suddenly imagines what Malfoy’s arse might look like right now and feels uncomfortably warm), but Malfoy did use his teeth. Harry can’t help smiling to himself as he squeezes toothpaste out onto his toothbrush.

As he brushes his teeth, he studies himself in the mirror. There are dark circles under his eyes from the week’s long days and short nights, but he feels energised and fully ready for whatever tourist activities are on today’s docket. It’s Friday. Their seventh day here.

His face is rough to the touch, rougher than usual, and he remembers rushing yesterday morning and not having time to shave. He’s in the middle of taking care of this when the door opens, and Malfoy is there, meeting Harry’s eyes in the mirror.

He stops in the doorway, stares at Harry for a moment, and then laughs, reaching for his toothbrush.

“Shaving _the Muggle way_ , Potter? And here I thought you were some sort of powerful wizard.”

“I cut myself when I try to use shaving charms,” Harry says, looking sideways at Malfoy. “Power and precision aren’t perfectly correlated.”

Malfoy freezes, his toothbrush in his mouth. He is looking at Harry very oddly, but Harry knows he couldn’t parse it if he tried, so he just continues shaving. Malfoy resumes brushing his teeth, but keeps watching Harry in the mirror.

“And aren’t you brushing your teeth _the Muggle way_?” Harry asks, unable to keep from grinning. Malfoy’s eyes narrow in the mirror.

Harry finishes and bends over the sink to splash water on his face, and Malfoy stands behind him, tapping his foot pointedly. When Harry straightens, Malfoy spits into the sink and rinses off his toothbrush.

“Pardon me for caring about oral hygiene, Potter. Charms are far less effective.”

Harry smiles. “Maybe if you were a more powerful wizard.”

Malfoy looks at him wordlessly for several long moments. Finally, he says, “They’re going to notice that.” Then he turns on his heel and leaves the bathroom.

Harry stares blankly after him, until he remembers the bruise on his neck. He turns his head, gauging its conspicuity in the mirror. Yeah, they’re definitely going to notice. He feels for his wand in his pockets, but it’s on the side table by the sofa. He sighs.

“Malfoy?” he calls into the main room, through the bathroom door.

He reappears in the doorway, his wand held loosely in his hand. “What?”

“Can you conceal it?”

“Can’t do it yourself?”

“I’m pants at wandless glamours,” Harry says. “Pants at any wandless magic that doesn’t have convenient daily use, really. Just not there yet.”

Malfoy gives him a look that makes him feel like an exotic zoo animal kept behind glass.

“My wand’s in there,” Harry says, gesturing. “I thought it would be more—”

“No, it’s fine,” Malfoy says, and passes his wand easily over the side of Harry’s neck. He gives Harry a once-over, grey eyes travelling from his face all the way down to his feet, and then leaves the bathroom again without another word.

Harry follows him this time, going to the window to open the curtains. Malfoy glares at the sudden brightness but does not vocalise any objection. He is bent over his suitcase, and he takes out another neatly folded stack of garments. As he straightens, Harry stares at the curve of his arse under his pyjama bottoms, which are really far looser than they need to be. The skin of his back is pale and clean, and Harry wishes he’d dug his fingers in somewhere he could actually see.

The bedroom door opens, and Ginny squints sleepily at them. Her hair is a wild tangle, and the oversized t-shirt she slept in is falling off one shoulder.

“Put some clothes on,” she says, her voice low and disgruntled. Neither Harry nor Malfoy is wearing a shirt.

“You first,” Malfoy counters. She sticks her tongue out at him. “Do you need the bathroom? I’m going to take a shower.” His voice is strange.

Without answering, Ginny makes her way to use the bathroom before him, still squinty-eyed. Malfoy doesn’t move, just stands there by his suitcase with his back almost aggressively straight.

“I’ll go get coffee for everyone,” Harry says, to fill the silence. As he puts on a t-shirt, socks, and shoes, Malfoy stays put, holding today’s outfit folded in his hands and seeming to stare off into space.

As Harry passes him on his way to the door, he finally says, “Three sugars—”

“And no milk. I remember.”

Malfoy pauses. And then, softly, “Thank you,” as the door closes in Harry’s wake.

:

At this point, Harry is amazed that there are still even more significant landmarks to see, and he has an even more difficult time keeping track of their significance. After a building that Harry thinks is a library and a train station that is somehow important (it did have a very beautiful ceiling), they wind up at a zoo for most of the afternoon. They split up for dinner, Luna and Malfoy grabbing a quick dinner so they won’t be late for the opera and Harry and Ginny electing instead to wander until they can find somewhere to settle for a few good, solid hours of alcohol.

Harry thinks they both know where this is going to lead, and if they were each a bit braver, they’d have openly acknowledge the need for this conversation. Instead, he waits until they’re both a bit tipsy, and he thinks Ginny is consciously keeping the subjects light until then as well.

Finally, after over an hour, Harry leans in across the booth and says, “Ginny, I think I like men as well.”

“You _think_ you do?”

Despite his certainty she’d already known, to some extent, this isn’t the response he expected. “I think I know I do.”

“I know you know you do.” And then, “But you thought you weren’t supposed to, didn’t you?”

Harry shakes his head. “It just—it hadn’t occurred to me, as ridiculous as that may sound.”

“But then you found out Malfoy was gay and a whole new world of possibility opened before your eyes,” she says dramatically, gesturing broadly with her hands.

“I’m not gay, though.” He thinks back to their fumbling encounters and how they never had sex because neither of them were ready, and he hopes she isn’t know thinking this is why. “I do still like women.”

“I know,” she says, smiling slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me for a while, you know. Or I suppose waiting for you to realise, and then for you to tell me.”

“Is that why you wanted Malfoy and I to—” He almost says sleep together, but no, that’s a bit much. “Share a bed?”

“So Malfoy’s gayness could strengthen yours?” She laughs. “No, I just wanted the bed and not the sofa.”

“You didn’t think—” He stops. Of course his ex-girlfriend wasn’t trying to get him to, well, do the things he’s been doing with Malfoy. “How did you even know he was gay?”

“How didn’t you?” she says unhelpfully, eyebrows raised. “I mean, if it weren’t already obvious—which it completely is—there’s the whole business with him and Luna.”

He and Luna have ‘business’? “What, does she only befriend homosexuals?”

Ginny laughs. “No, no—did you not hear about this? Malfoy wanted to date her, and she went along with it for about a week, until she sat him down and said there was nothing wrong with them loving each other without being _in love_ , and also that she had far too high a sex drive to date a person who wasn’t physically attracted to her.”

The phrase _far too high a sex drive_ echoes in Harry’s mind for a moment and he tries not to picture Malfoy and Luna together that way—despite Ginny pretty much explicitly saying they never were together that way, it’s where his mind jumps anyway. “Malfoy wanted to date her?” he says after a moment.

“Is that so surprising?” Ginny asks. “Who wouldn’t want to date Luna? Luna’s wonderful.”

Harry nods slowly, processing this. Ginny said it so easily; Luna and Malfoy tried to date but were incompatible, and instead they’re best friends. Harry has best friends, yes, but he wants Ginny to be his best friend also, and if Luna and Malfoy can manage it, then maybe they can. It seems to embarrassing to say aloud, though.

After several more drinks, however, Harry will say just about anything. “I want us to be best friends, Gin,” he tells her, and grabs her hand across the table.

Ginny nods vigorously, and her eyes look a bit wet. “I think I want to date Luna,” she says with the same earnest determination as Harry.

 _I think I miss Malfoy_ , Harry thinks, but doesn’t say. He isn’t quite drunk enough for _that_.

The brisk walk back to the hotel sobers them up a bit, though, and by the time they get to their suite they’re able to listen to Luna’s recount of their time at the opera without either of them blurting anything embarrassing. Malfoy has already changed into his pyjamas and sits straight-backed in one of the chairs at the table, watching Harry and Ginny with such a strange look in his eyes that Harry wonders if he can tell what they’ve been talking about.

:

They don’t close the curtains this time.

Harry gets into bed first and turns off his light before Malfoy has even approached the windows. Malfoy hesitates, halfway out of his chair, and then comes directly to the bed and turns his light out, too. Harry doesn’t wait for him to lie down fully, but immediately scoots closer and throws his right leg between Malfoy’s, rising up with his weight on his left arm. Malfoy’s arm comes up to hook around Harry’s neck, his other hand resting lightly on Harry’s hip.

Harry can see his face in the glow of the city lights coming through the windows. His eyes are wide with something like wonder, and Harry likes it. His mouth drops open as Harry’s hand goes past the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and his eyes squeeze shut as Harry starts to stroke his cock, and Harry likes that too.

He shifts his weight, moving so he’s suspended over Malfoy, his weight on his knees and his left forearm. Malfoy’s eyes fly open, but they don’t meet Harry’s. They’re looking lower. He wets his lips with his tongue as Harry keeps moving his hand, and then his hands are moving on Harry’s back, eventually resting just below his shoulder blades. Harry watches the minute changes in his expression, the way his lips form around silent moans, and his eyebrows intermittently draw tight almost as though he’s in pain. His lower lip catches between his teeth, and his eyes dart up to Harry’s, clear and open.

Harry feels a rush of desire, a flood of heat that shoots straight to his cock and then radiates outward, warming him all over. He leans down and hears Malfoy’s breath catch as he presses his face to Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy’s skin is hot too, hot everywhere.

Malfoy whimpers softly as Harry releases his cock to push his shirt up, and then wriggles to allow Harry to get it most of the way up his chest. He doesn’t let Harry take it all the way off, though, keeping his hands anchored on Harry’s back, his fingers twisting the fabric of Harry’s shirt. Harry runs his hand over Malfoy’s skin, feeling his hard nipples and the way the muscles of his stomach flex with his ragged breathing. Harry moves down, bending his legs and bringing his arm lower on the bed, and presses his mouth to Malfoy’s chest.

Malfoy abruptly releases his back and grabs at the sheet underneath him with a sharp intake of breath. Harry grins, then sucks at that same spot of skin. Malfoy’s hands come up to his head, not holding it or guiding it but just _touching_ it, fingers in his hair, as though assuring himself that Harry is actually there. Harry can feel the tension in him and wonders if he’s holding himself back from making noise, or from holding Harry harder.

He wants to put his mouth on Malfoy’s cock. He doesn’t let himself think about this urge long enough to question it; he just sucks and nuzzles his way down Malfoy’s stomach, loving the noises he makes, and his slight, helpless movements. He tugs Malfoy’s pyjama bottoms down and wraps his hand around his cock again. He knows its size, the length and girth of it, and the weight of it. But now he can see it, and it’s different like this. He presses his lips to Malfoy’s hip, wanting to calm him, and then watches his fist move on Malfoy’s cock. He’s going to suck him off. This thought probably shouldn’t thrill him the way it does.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asks, his voice breathy and almost panicked-sounding.

“I just,” Harry says. “I want to,” and he licks the head of Malfoy’s cock.

The noise that comes out of Malfoy makes Harry want to do it again, so he does, and Malfoy makes the noise again. “Potter—” he says, but then Harry has taken the first couple of inches into his mouth, and Malfoy can’t seem to speak anymore. He sounds like he’s barely breathing, even. His hands tighten in Harry’s hair. Harry pulls off and licks the whole thing, all the way up the length of it, and then sucks the head into his mouth again.

It doesn’t taste as strange as he thought it might. It’s a cock, but it’s still _skin_ , and the taste of precome isn’t terrible. It isn’t that much of a change from using his hands. He still uses his hands, actually, since he can’t take very much into his mouth at once; after experimenting a bit, he settles on sucking on the head while pumping the rest with his fist, which Malfoy seems to like. His other hand holds Malfoy’s hip down on the bed, while Malfoy practically thrashes under him. Malfoy is groaning softly and saying quiet things to himself that involve Harry’s name and a lot of expletives, and his hands are finally gripping Harry’s head hard, anchoring it.

Malfoy doesn’t announce it with a cry, but with silence; the steady stream of words suddenly stops as one of his hands releases Harry’s hair and claps down hard over his own mouth. And then Malfoy is coming, filling Harry’s mouth with hot, salty come. Harry coughs, and it drips out of his mouth, over Malfoy’s cock and down Harry’s chin. Malfoy makes a small noise, and his hips jerk up into Harry’s fist as he comes down. Harry wandlessly cleans up the mess, but he can still taste it in his mouth. He licks his lips, thoughtful.

Then Malfoy grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and pulls him up, knocking him sideways onto the mattress. He leans over Harry, and for one wild moment Harry thinks he is going to kiss him, but instead Malfoy pulls Harry’s shirt up and off, and his underpants down and off, and runs his hand down Harry’s chest, breathing hard above him. Preoccupied, Harry has not been thinking about his own erection, but he is now aware that he is almost painfully hard, and as Malfoy lightly scrapes his fingernails over Harry’s abdomen, Harry can barely think of anything else.

“Are you—” he starts, but then Malfoy is moving down, and he is.

Unlike Harry, he’s clearly done this before; after licking it and pressing his lips softly against it, he takes it down easily. And then Harry’s awareness narrows to the mess of sensations, the wet heat, the pressure of it, Malfoy’s tongue moving, his hand between Harry’s thighs. Harry hears himself make a noise that would embarrass him horribly, could he find it in himself to care, and Malfoy’s other hand comes up to cover his mouth. It doesn’t take long at all for Harry to come; Malfoy is too good, the feeling of it too much. And Malfoy swallows it, pulling back slightly and taking all of it, and Harry nearly exclaims at this, but Malfoy’s hand is still on his mouth.

Malfoy comes up onto the bed next to Harry, and his hand relaxes, so he’s more resting it on Harry’s face than keeping Harry’s mouth closed. He moves it slowly down Harry’s jaw, coming to a stop on his neck. “Good?” he asks, his voice somewhat hoarse.

That doesn’t begin to cover it. “Yeah,” Harry says, and his voice is rough too. “Really good.”

“Good,” Malfoy says, and he takes his hand away. Harry looks over at him, and their eyes meet briefly before Malfoy glances away.

Malfoy shifts slightly, so his shoulders are flat on the bed. His right is pressed up against Harry’s left, their skin in contact from shoulder to elbow. His hands are folded over his chest, as though restrained, but through his own efforts.

Harry wants to say—something. Something about how much he liked that, and how much he liked doing it to Malfoy, and how he thinks it might be _Malfoy_ he likes.

He kind of wants to kiss him.

Malfoy sits up abruptly, grabbing something from the foot of the bed and tossing it at Harry, who doesn’t try to catch it but instead lets it hit his chest. His shirt. And then, next, his underpants. Harry puts both back on, struggling briefly with getting the right limbs in the right holes.

When he lies down again, Malfoy immediately rolls onto his side, his back to Harry. But he’s not far away this time. His back is close against Harry’s arm, and he feels tense with it; this proximity is deliberate. Harry contemplates this for a moment, lying flat on his back with his arms straight at his sides, and then he thinks—well, why not?

He shifts onto his side, tucking his arm up under his head and fitting his front against Malfoy’s back. He curls his other arm around Malfoy, resting his hand on Malfoy’s stomach. Malfoy stays tense for a moment, then relaxes, his back curving to Harry’s chest. His breath begins to slow as he drifts into sleep, but Harry lies awake for a while, feeling Malfoy’s heartbeat all around him.

:

On Saturday they go to Brooklyn again, this time to an area further in that doesn’t have an immediate view of Manhattan. The morning is spent at another art museum, but with a few days’ time since the last two, Harry doesn’t mind. Also, the museum is different to the ones they saw before, as Malfoy relays enthusiastically during the subway ride under the river; however, Harry never actually catches what makes it different. Mostly, he watches Malfoy fill Luna and Ginny in and thinks about how it felt to wake up curled together.

Part of Harry wants to stick with Malfoy as they explore the museum, but the rest of him wants to take some time for himself and just _think_ for a bit, without being distracted by Malfoy’s commentary or smile or enthusiasm. The rest of him wins; he looks at the paintings and sculptures a bit, but mainly he thinks.

He’d like to talk to Hermione right now, most of all, but she’s on the other side of an ocean, and he has no Floo or phone access, and he’ll be where she is by the time a letter could get to her anyway. So he’ll just have to do his best to work it out on his own. He’d have a better sense of the state of things if they’d exchanged any words today beyond _good morning_ , but when he woke up he had the feeling that speaking would change things, somehow, and so he lay there with Malfoy until Malfoy rolled over to face him and said _good morning_ , and Harry said _good morning_ , and Harry thought about kissing him, and Malfoy got out of bed and went to the bathroom, and when he came back Ginny was already up.

Harry has been thinking a lot about kissing him. He’s been trying to think about what he wants and how he can get it, but instead he just keeps thinking about the kissing. It’s muddling everything up in his head, and Harry wonders if things would be clearer if he got the kissing out of the way first.

They regroup for lunch, and Harry misses most of the conversation because he’s too busy staring across the table at Malfoy’s mouth. He eats very neatly. Harry can’t imagine watching anyone else chew and thinking _that’s a mouth I want to kiss_.

He does catch that they’ll now be going to a garden, which seems a strange thing to do in the middle of winter, but he assumes it must still be worth seeing. And it does look nice, as it turns out; he can imagine it looks even better when the trees aren’t mostly bare, but it also looks scenic half-covered in snow.

Luna walks slowly, first taking everything in with her own eyes and then with her camera. Ginny holds back and walks with her, but Harry strolls along at his usual pace and finds Malfoy falling in step with him.

Harry wants to say something, but he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.

Malfoy is silent, too, as they walk through the frozen garden just closely enough for their shoulders to occasionally bump. They follow the path as it bends, and just as Harry thinks this is all that is going to happen, Malfoy stops walking. “Harry,” Malfoy says, and Harry stops too. Between the trees, it’s almost like they’re alone.

But Malfoy doesn’t say anything, and anything Harry can think to say still sounds wrong. They look at each other, standing still and silent, and Harry thinks: Malfoy is beautiful in the cold. His hair looks almost white, and very, very soft. In this winter light the sharp lines of his face are softer, his cheeks a bit pink, his mouth a single point of warmth. Each of his breaths comes out in a visible white vapour, and Harry thinks he can feel the heat of it, even though they aren’t quite close enough for that.

And then they _are_ ; Malfoy takes one step forward, and his warm, white breath mingles with Harry’s between them. Harry takes one step forward, and their frozen noses bump. Harry tilts his head, just slightly, so his nose nudging at the side of Malfoy’s instead of nudging at its front. He leans in that final fraction.

Malfoy’s lips are warm. They’re dry, but soft, and very warm. He’s kissing Malfoy. Malfoy is kissing him. Harry brings his gloved hands up to cup Malfoy’s face, warming his cheeks through the knitted fabric, and he feels Malfoy’s hands on his shoulders. He feels Malfoy’s chest against his chest, their scarves and coats and jumpers between them but the sensation still familiar.

Harry breaks the kiss, pulling back only as much as he must in order to speak. “Is this okay?” he asks, later than he should have. This—doing this in a public place, doing this in the daylight, the very act of kissing itself.

Malfoy nods, his nose bumping Harry’s again, and they’re kissing again, kissing until they hear voices and footsteps approaching and they step apart. Malfoy’s mouth is a dark pink now, his cheeks further flushed, his pupils wide and black, his hair sticking up a bit above his ears where Harry’s fingers ran through it. It seems downright unjust that Harry can’t keep kissing him indefinitely.

“Shall we walk?” Malfoy asks, his voice strange, and as they continue down the path, Harry has to force his hands into his coat pockets to keep from reaching to hold Malfoy’s.

Harry doesn’t know if it was strangers approaching or just Luna and Ginny, but either way, he isn’t quite ready to not be alone together. The questions he still can’t quite articulate seem even more important to ask now, and he wants to find the words before this time runs out and the outside world catches up.

Malfoy finds his words first. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he starts, and his voice is still strange, and Harry realises what he’s hearing is nervousness. “You don’t have to—I just need to know, before this goes any further, what it—what is it you want from me?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, “but I liked that a lot. I’ve liked all of it a lot. I think I like you. A lot.”

“Is it me, or is it the novelty?”

“Novelty?” Harry repeats.

“You’ve never done anything with a man before,” Malfoy says, and Harry confirms this with a nod. “And you said yourself—we never got along well, and we dodged this until now, and—”

“I want to get to know you,” Harry says. “I may not know you well yet, but what I’ve come to know, I like. I want to know more. I want to spend time with you.”

“You dated Ginny.” Harry nods again. “And you two are still close.” The thought isn’t quite finished, but Malfoy stops there.

“We’re friends. We don’t want anything more than that.” Upon consideration, Harry adds, “Last night I told her I was attracted to men as well.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”

“I did,” he confirms. “I was thinking about you half the night, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says softly. “I was—” He stops.

They’ve made it back to where they started, and so they come to a stop. Harry looks back up the path and sees Ginny and Luna a ways behind them, still moving at a slow but steady pace.

“Do we—do you not want to tell them?”

“Tell them what, exactly?” Malfoy asks, in a voice Harry would describe as timid if _timid_ were a word that could describe Malfoy.

“About this.” He tries to sound confident, but he can feel his voice go small on the second word. “I want to date you,” he says in a rush, and adds, “I think.”

Malfoy looks as though Harry has grabbed him by the shoulder and shaken him roughly. His eyes get big and his eyebrows draw together. “Date?” Malfoy repeats, and Harry’s face feels warm. “You think?” Malfoy says next, his voice quieter.

“I want to date you,” Harry says, more surely. “If you want to date me.”

“I would,” Malfoy says, and his voice sounds as slight and breakable as Harry feels. Then, a smile crossing his lips, he adds, “I think.”

Harry wants to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him a lot, and for a long while. Malfoy’s pupils are dilated, his lips parted, his breathing uneven; he wants to, too. “This isn’t the place,” Harry whispers, more to himself than to Malfoy.

“What do you want to tell them?” Malfoy asks, and it takes Harry a moment to understand what he’s talking about.

“What do _you_ want to—”

“I asked first,” Malfoy says, smiling that wonderful, irritating smile. “Don’t dodge the question. What do you want to tell them?”

“That we’re dating,” Harry says boldly, honestly. “That we like each other a lot and so we’re dating.”

“Speak for yourself.” Malfoy smirks. “I only agreed to that first part.”

“I really want to snog you stupid,” Harry says, feeling bolder.

Malfoy’s smirk doesn’t waver, but his whole face goes pink. “All right, I might like you a little bit. And—we can tell them that. I’d be all right with that. I may have been talking to Luna about you, actually. When you were talking to Ginny.”

Harry grins at that, and Malfoy is smiling too. He feels a little silly and a little bit embarrassed, but mostly he feels very, very glad, and he hopes that he is somehow inspiring as much gladness in Malfoy, too. He feels happy and brave, and the knowledge that he will not have to let go of this feeling when they take the portkey back home tomorrow gives him new confidence. Realising that Malfoy likely feels just as silly and embarrassed as he does makes this feel somehow easier, and he takes his left hand out of his coat pocket.

“How about this? Is this okay?”

Wordlessly, Malfoy weaves his gloved fingers through Harry’s.

Four minutes later, they tell Ginny and Luna. Three hours later, during _Rent_ ’s second act, Malfoy reaches across the armrest and squeezes Harry’s hand hard. Eight hours later, they fall asleep together on the sofa bed for the last time. And the next morning, as the four of them take firm hold of the portkey, Harry and Malfoy’s hands hold together just as tightly.


End file.
